


The Duff Degree

by Heylir



Category: Widdershins (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 07:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12427752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heylir/pseuds/Heylir
Summary: The story of how Benjamin Thackerey took his final exams.A spoiler of some fact revealed only in "Curtain Call".





	The Duff Degree

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Диплом «для бедных»](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11712213) by [Heylir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heylir/pseuds/Heylir). 



> This translation was made (mostly) by Maria Gerasimova, a.k.a. Sandy Noname and (partly) by Heylir herself. Proofread, edited and authorized by the author. We'd be grateful to be informed about typos and mistakes found, in order to fix them.
> 
> The main premise of the story based on Thackerey's answer there: <http://www.widdershinscomic.com/wdshn/character-qas-3/>

  
_"What's a proper wizard doin' at a rubbish job like this, anyway?" O'Malley snorted scornfully. "Duff degree?"_  
     _"So rude, Mal!" Wolfe reproached, examining a framed sheet of paper on the wall. "Here, look! A third class, that is a lot of class!"_  
_"Aye, duff degree." O'Malley grinned triumphantly._  


  


    "What should I do with you, please tell me, Mr Thackerey?" Professor Wintford sighed and put another dash in a column of the form, where eight identical dashes and one tick were marked already.  
    The student recognized the question as a rhetorical one and answered nothing. He only removed his glasses and set himself to wipe them intently. Wintford sighed again.  
    To an outside eye Benjamin Thackerey seemed to be an ideal student whose mouth you may safely put butter in. He was a paragon of diligence, scrupulously observing each and every rule, never participating in even innocuous amusements of his fellow students, not to mention booze-ups and brawls (though the Professor recalled one incident, the only one), always being pointedly correct, preceding every question to lecturers with a polite "Sorry to disturb you, sir", never disputing grades, never putting himself before others... This praiseworthy list was much longer, but just now the Professor definitely would prefer a couple of loafers, the sort that entertain themselves by pulling the helmets off of policemen, or some indifferent young gentlemen from good families, which didn't need anything from the College beyond a certificate in a nice frame.  
    Formally, there was a clear answer to this rhetorical question, namely, a non-admission to the examination based on the results of preliminary testing. But in fact, this measure was intended to intimidate those who started to work only a week before exams and eliminate those who didn't work at all. But Thackerey, whose dark circles under his eyes couldn't be concealed even by his spectacles... Wintford looked through sheets with his results again. Theory: 100 points out of 100, the practice of category 1: 90 out of 100, the practice of category 2: 75 out of 100. And 10 out of 100 for the pre-test in category 3. One success against nine failures. Although, honestly, you couldn't even call these failures — he just froze and did nothing until the time allotted for summoning was up.  
    "What's the matter with you, Mr Thackerey? Can it be that you are unwell?" Benjamin ignored a hint in the Professor's tone and silently shook his head.  
    Wintford tried a different approach.  
    "Tell me how you acted during the fourth summoning." The fourth one was the only successful case.  
    Thackerey nervously put his glasses back on.  
    "I recalled two situations from the textbook, similar to it in their introductory data," he explained, "and interpolated them into the required range."  
    "I have added up the series," Wintford muttered under his breath, understanding at last the essence and depth of the problem. "Thackerey, it's a test of your ability to improvise! Not to modify standard summons, like in category 2. The tasks of this test are specially selected to make the option of reducing them to the conventional ones as difficult as possible. No wonder you have succeeded just once. Forget for a while everything you have learned and listen to your intuition. Your instinct of a wizard. I thought we explained that clearly enough at the pre-examination consultations."  
    Benjamin looked down as if observing something interesting at his feet.  
    "But if... just as a hypothesis... if one can't hear one's intuition?" he asked softly. "Is it possible that some people haven't any?"  
    "Everybody has intuition," Wintford replied gravely. "Especially every wizard. But it has to be trained, you have to train yourself to hear it. This can't be taught in lectures, you must work on it yourself. Did you try?"  
    Benjamin nodded slowly, without looking up.  
    Somebody else the Professor would advise to try better and harder, but for Thackerey it would be like putting out the fire with kerosene, an unwise thing to do. It seemed trying too much was exactly the reason for blocking his "inner hearing". He got too tense, even at exams in theory, which he knew by heart. And in the cases when his chance of failure was quite real the anxiety-interference might clog his channels of the magical apperception completely.  
    However, advice to drink some strong stuff before the exam and not to give a damn about its results hardly would be taken by Thackerey in a proper way. Not to mention tutors are not supposed to teach their students bad things.  
    "Why are you so eager to get a degree, Mr Thackerey?"  
    He looked up, surprised.  
    "Sir?"  
    "What do you need a diploma for, young man? What use would it be of, with such practical results as yours? Are you going to confine yourself to the routine summons from the basic ten? For this purpose, just a provisional magical license is enough."  
    "There must be someone... doing routine work," said Benjamin softly, in the tone of objecting, with the same words for the hundredth time, to a person absent here.  
    And there must be someone working with a broom... Wintford didn't say it aloud, though. It would be unethical and useless.  
    "You are clever, Thackerey, you have a good memory and craving for knowledge. You'd make a decent consultant or a researcher in the history of magic. Your essay done last semester, about the role of personal curses in British politics, was downright excellent. The board will be glad to affirm your theoretical competence..."  
    Benjamin frowned, worried.  
    "I... want to be a wizard practicioner, sir."  
    "Then you must pass your exam in improvisation," Wintford said bluntly. "We are not the University of Widdershins, but there are still certain standards we maintain. To be a wizard is something more than just having memorized a set of formulae and rules. Either you prove your capacity for creativity, or you remain without a degree. Am I clear?"  
    "Yes, sir," Ben agreed.  
  
  
    Four and a half out of ten. The result wasn't brilliant, but still not so disastrous as one of the pre-tests.  
    And Thackerey looked as exhausted as if he had just climbed out of a mine. His hair, usually neatly combed, was now matted from sweat at the temples, his ponytail was messed up. He reached out to adjust his elastic hair band and dropped something.  
    "Where did this come from?" Wintford asked looking at a ten-sided dice rolled on the floor.  
    Benjamin picked it up quickly and mumbled something about "not forbidden".  
    Technically, he was right, there was no ban to bring non-magical objects to the exam, with the exception of cribs, of course. Some students took unimbued "lucky charms" with them. But either Wintford was totally ignorant of human nature, or this particular student was neither superstitious nor sentimental.  
    "What it is for?"  
    In addition to all his other virtues Mr Thackerey never lied. Evil tongues explained it by the sheer lack of imagination.  
    So he told the truth, "I... compiled a list of basic key decisions, numbered. To decide what I'd choose, I threw the dice and looked at the result."  
    "You are not allowed to bring notes with you," Wintford reminded, for nothing more appropriate occured to him at the moment.  
    Benjamin nodded, "Yes, sir. I haven't written anything down. I kept the list in my memory."  
    Well, Thackerey had done exactly what he was told to do, used his creative thinking. Just not to employ it during the summons.  
    "And if your decision is to determine one's life or health tomorrow?" Wintford asked abruptly. "Would you throw a coin, too?"  
    Thackerey jerked up his head.  
    "No, sir," he snapped, his tone getting suddenly alive.  
    Wintford felt a bit ashamed of his false pathos. Of course, rhetoric questions like "What if the Deadly Sins decide to take over the world tomorrow, and you even can't draw a protective circle?!" aren't bought even by enthusiastic freshmen. But Benjamin Thackerey, with his reverence for the rules, his craving for knowledge, his desperate aspiration to obtain a fully-fledged degree... Who knows, could all of this conceal something beyond his morbid narrow-mindedness? Could he be naive enough to believe the words of the Wizards' Code carved on the marble plate in the Main Hall? The words about the duty to the Crown, courage, clarity of soul and purity of thoughts...  
    "Why do you want to be a wizard practicioner?" he asked in a gentler tone.  
    Thackerey fiddled with the dice, as though it could show him the correct answer here, too.  
    "Wizards can do things non-wizards can't," he worded at last.  
    Fifty students out of hundred would say "mundane people" and twenty-five of the remaining fifty would replace this expression with a more polite one at the very last moment. Benjamin did not falter even for a second, but for some reason, this irritated the examiner only more.  
    "And you want to feel special, don't you?" he asked with a frown. "I have bad news for you then, Mr Thackerey. You won't, because you haven't got the passing grade, three points short."  
    Benjamin's expression did not change — of course, he'd already figured out the result in his head. But they both knew an academic supervisor had the right to give to his student extra points if he saw fit. And now Wintford was wondering whether Thackerey was going to ask for it.  
    Meanwhile, the latter ran his tongue over his dry lips.  
    "Can I ask for a re-examination, sir?"  
    Wintford raised his eyes towards the ceiling inwardly. He had seen quite a lot of students in his lifetime: talented ones and mediocrities, diligent workers and sluggards, those whose strong natural gift became a hindrance for their graduation and those who effortlessly jumped through courses owing to it, those who did nothing beyond the required minimum to get their degree, and those who cried into their pillow at night having lost the first place even for a day. He also saw those whose talents turned out to be insufficient for something more than just magic tricks among friends — they accepted it quite easily at last. The more difficult matter were those who had at least tolerable abilities, but lacked the "spark" — and Wintford often sympathized with them. With many of them, but not with Thackerey; he rather made the former feel a desire to expel him as soon as possible and stop him from tormenting himself as well as others.  
    Nevertheless formally he had the right for a re-examination, one he still had never used.  
    "Tomorrow at 11 a.m., in the Dean's office," said Winford dryly. "If you manage to convince him you deserve another chance, you'll get your re-examination."  
    He looked at Benjamin sternly, almost expecting him to refuse.  
    "Much obliged, sir," Thackerey replied.  
    And a glance at his face suddenly made Wintford recall that only breach of discipline Benjamin had ever committed. At that time, when he entered the lecture room, the Professor saw two students shielding the big Thompson and three more restraining Thackerey, blood-smeared and trying to break free.  
    "Mr Thompson," he then said coldly, "putting other matters aside, perhaps you should pick on opponents your own..." 'size' was what he was about to say, but at the last moment took pity on Thackerey, "...weight class?"  
    "Me?" Thompson became indignant. "I never touched this maniac! Until he jumped me."  
    "Is it true?" The Professor asked the victim. The latter one nodded gloomily.  
    Next, he ought to have asked about the reason for the attack, but this Thackerey could really give an answer.  
    "Well, I suppose you have been punished enough already," said Wintford. "Go see the medic. You'll continue your studies tomorrow."  
    "But what about lectures?" asked Benjamin not quite clearly, because of his split lips.  
    "For one day they'll do without you."  
    He groped for his broken glasses on the floor, stood up carefully and walked out of the lecture room slowly, unsteadily, hitting his shoulder on the doorjamb along the way.  
    "If anyone volunteers to take Mr Thackerey to the medic, I don't mind," Wintford remarked casually, taking the marked essays out of his briefcase. No volunteers came forward.  
    And now Benjamin's expression very much resembled the one he had then while trying to break free.  
      
      
    "Do take a seat, Mr Thackerey," Dean Regen invited.  
    Benjamin would have preferred to make the conversation as short as possible, but he had no choice. He sat down next to a small table with papers, pen and ink for students to write statements and explanatory notes.  
    "So, you insist upon becoming a wizard practicioner?"  
    "Yes, sir," answered Thackerey.  
    "A praiseworthy aspiration, indeed..." But suddenly a high sharp sound rang, and the core of a small glass hemisphere standing on the Dean's desk began glowing. Annoyed, he covered it with his hand. "Oh, they won’t let me talk in peace!"  
    He got out of his armchair.  
    "Beg your pardon, I have to leave you for a while, young man. Meanwhile, you can look around. You haven't been here before, have you?"  
    "I haven't, sir."  
    "Well, so take the opportunity. I'll be back soon, and we shall continue our conversation."  
    Thackerey indeed had never been in this office. He had never been called here to be taken to task, neither he did sneak in secretly (of course not!), nor he was one of those chosen favourites who were said to be given access to these bookshelves. Benjamin never would ask for it himself. He admired the neat rows of leather-bound volumes at the other side of the Dean's desk but decided not to examine them closely. It was too late now, one way or other.  
    Instead, he approached the cabinet with magical artefacts. The glazed doors were locked, but exhibits with accompanying labels were perfectly visible through the transparent glass. Benjamin looked at them with that scrutiny of the surroundings which is typical for patients waiting in a dentist's office: they try to think about anything other than about what is to be coming soon.  
    However, before long he was captured by the contemplation itself. Benjamin always was attracted to enchanted things which were as if standing between two different worlds, even the most common ones. Not to mention things with an interesting past, sometimes historically valuable. Also, he loved to read about the work of bounty hunters for magical artefacts, not adventure fiction literature, of course, but proper respectable non-fiction books.  
    He had examined all the exhibits several times already, but Mr Regen still wasn't back. Finally, Thackerey sat back in the chair, behind the Dean's desk. Everything there was in perfect order. Only the magical torch device had gone a bit askew... Reflexively, Benjamin held out his hand to adjust the tray with the magical circle, but the enchanted flame, as if in fear, startled away from his palm and jumped over the edge. The papers on the table caught fire at once.  
    Thackerey leapt to his feet in a moment and began to look around feverishly in search of fire-fighting equipment. There was no such thing in the right place in the room. Benjamin called the name of the Lord in vain, meanwhile hastily turning over options for action in his mind.  
    Running to look for a fire extinguisher? The Dean's office was located in a remote wing of the building. Meanwhile, the fire would destroy the books. Summoning a spirit? Which one? Given the rate of his improvisations... Thackerey's eyes fell upon the cabinet with exhibits, the locked one. He grabbed the inkwell from the small table and flung it, with a strong push from the shoulder, at the glass door. The glass splinters scattered in triumphant ringing. Benjamin ran to the cabinet, put his hand into the broken glass and, wincing in pain, pulled out something small and oblong. Then, now aiming neatly, he tossed it into the magical flames.  
    The projectile caught fire, its shape started to pulse, something hissed nastily, and a few moments later a bright yellow-white light flashed out. There was a fountain of sparks and then nothing left, neither the flames nor the unique exhibit.  
    Thackerey stared dumbly at the charred table, struggling to catch his breath.  
    "Forty-five seconds," he heard Professor Wintford's voice behind him. "Not a record, but in the top ten, what do you say, Dean Regen?"  
    "Without any doubt. What did you use, Mr Thackerey?"  
    " _The Frozen Heart_ ", Benjamin responded automatically, still not quite comprehending what exactly had just happened and who himself was now, a klutz or a smart guy.  
    "An artefact of Indifference? Well, that's a reasonable choice. It's not dangerous at short contact times and is highly effective, as we have just seen." The Dean looked at Wintford. "Fifty points?"  
    "It would be," the Professor said with emphasis, "if not for this." He took Thackerey's left wrist and lifted it up, showing a few shallow, but long and heavily bleeding cuts on the back of his hand. "One should tear your hands off at once for this mess, it's quickly and without damaged tendons. You won a few seconds at the risk of crippling yourself. Here and now it's only your problem, Mister-Prospective-Wizard-Practicioner. But the next time you may let down people that depend on you — people that pay you, forgive the mercantilism. Your hands and your head are working tools, you must take care of them, do you understand me?"  
    "Yes, sir," Benjamin replied contritely.  
    "But even with a penalty, the third-class degree is yours. And now march to the medic, right away!"  
    If Wintford expected joy, gratitude or just a smile, he was very wrong. Benjamin stayed staring forlornly at his best, once snow-white, shirt, decorated now with an ugly violet stain. Fortunately, he couldn't see the ink splashes on his face.  
    "Permission to wash and change first, sir?" he pleaded.  
    "Permission granted," Wintford sighed. "And... Thackerey, work on creative thinking. It's a useful skill."  
    Benjamin bowed, first to the Professor, then to the Dean. He turned and left the office with a steady, even pace.  
    Wintford took the exam sheets, wrote on the last one: "Managing an emergency situation", put a tick, signed and shook his head.  
    "So this is the next generation of wizards, is it, James? What is the world coming to?"  
    The Dean grinned.  
    "Are you sorry to have been mistaken? This is not the worst option, trust me. I had a student once, a bit like Thackerey. During this test, he reached into the fire with his bare hands."  
    "And where is he now?"  
    "Never returned from the expedition to the Fourth Anchor."  
    Wintford became serious:  
    "At least Benjamin definitely is safe from this sort of danger."  
    "Thank goodness," the Dean replied. "He is one of those who won't rush in where angels fear to tread, without a very good reason. But if they have to, they come back more often than not."  
      
      
    Sitting in a secluded corner of the library, Benjamin Thackerey was trying his best to write as neatly as possible with his hand bandaged.

_"Dear Ms Cunningham,_

_I'm pleased to inform you that your good-for-nothing cousin Benjamin has become a proud holder of a third-class wizard degree, despite all dire predictions. And he hopes to celebrate this happy occasion in your company in the near future."_  
  
He drew a long line with a pen and went on below it:

_"Greetings, Verity,_

_I think I am going to leave my alma mater before the official graduation, just take my papers and come to Widdershins. All these carousals and pompous ceremonies are nothing more than a waste of time. I'll be glad to see you again. If you happen to come across B &B, tell them about my degree — or don't tell, as you wish. I'll write to my parents after thinking all this through and making some plans. I want to try and find a job in Widdershins. I know, there is a wide offer of wizard services there, but strong demand for them, too, and I was never picky. I don't want to go back to London, it's time to get on my own two feet as such a big boy should. _  
_And you, how are you doing? I hope your new partnership is going as well as before. I have always thought that the Cunninghams prefer working alone, and in this regard, I have the heart of a Cunningham. I just can't imagine myself as someone's partner. But you can do everything, I know, working with a celebrity's granddaughter included. I haven't heard your stories about artefact-hunting for a while, you owe me a half-dozen of them, no less._

_With best regards, your cousin Benjamin, now a fully-licensed wizard." _

  
    Ben put the letter in the envelope, smiled, reached for a shelf and pulled a book with a promising title "How to find a job: A guide for graduates of the magic colleges" from it. Half an hour later the book was still open on the title page, and the soundly-sleeping fully-licensed wizard used it as a pillow.

**Author's Note:**

>  _"I have added up the series"_ — This is a reference to an anecdote about a famous mathematician whom the following mathematical problem was shown to:
> 
> “There are two villages, A and B. The distance between them is 7 km. Once John went from A to B and walked at a speed of 3 km/h. At the same time Pete with his dog went from B to A, to meet John, and walked at a speed of 4 km/h. The dog ran forward at a speed of 5 km/h. When it met John, it turned and ran back to Pete. Having met Pete, it turned again and ran to John, and so on. How many kilometers had the dog run before the boys met?”
> 
> He said the right answer in a moment and was told, "You did it correctly, and most of the people are trying to add up the series instead of doing it the simple way". He replied, "That's exactly what I've done".


End file.
